


Pureza

by SparkBeat



Series: Virgin!Rung [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Oral Fixation, oblivious Rung is oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4503777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/pseuds/SparkBeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prequel to Innocentia. A nerd with an oral fixation, and a bar full of mechs in disbelief. The idea that spawned this belong completely and wholeheartedly to thebuggu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pureza

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheBuggu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBuggu/gifts).



> Buggu made an awesome [post](http://thebuggu.tumblr.com/post/125474238360/sigh-can-i-just-have-a-fic-of-rung-sitting-at-a) that I couldn't resist working in to the virgin!Rung series. All credit goes to [TheBuggu](www.thebuggu.tumblr.com) for this! :)

Drift nudged Ratchet in the side, gesturing with his energon cube to the nearby table. Grumbling, Ratchet followed his sloshing fuel, optics landing on the ship’s therapist. His optics promptly widened, focusing rings expanding to their widest setting in shock.  
  
Rung had made himself comfortable at one of the smaller tables nearby, which was nothing unusual. The mech insisted that he did not want to make any bot feel uncomfortable, and no matter how friendly a therapist, that was the last mech many wanted to sit and drink with them.  
  
Sad, really.  
  
So Rung always had a table set aside for him, that nobody else took, just in case the bot came to Swerve’s for the night. Cruelty in kindness, Ratchet supposed. But tonight? Tonight was apparently going to be slightly different. The noise levels in the bar had gone low, hushed whispers passed back and forth between mechs. The cause? The unassuming orange bot, innocently reading a datapad, and suckling on a rust stick like a mech straight out of a porn vid.  
  
His own spike pressed against his panel, pinging insistently at his H.U.D; more than happy to offer up a replacement to the rust stick, and he swallowed thickly, reseting his optics and smacking Drift’s servo. It was still hanging in mid-air, pointing out Rung’s…interest, in his treat, for the whole bar to see.  
  
Not that any of them needed guidance.  
  
Rung pulled the slowly dissolving treat from his mouth, glossa chasing after it as he rolled it between his fingers and swiped at the datapad with his free servo. Ratchet could hear other mechs groaning as he traced it over his bottom lip, nibbling at the tip and dragging his glossa up the length of it to gather up the crumbling bits of treat.  
  
“ _Holy frag, there’s no way he’s eating it like that on accident!_ ” someone whispered. Ratchet couldn’t tear his optics away long enough to figure out who said it. Drift, it seemed, couldn’t, either. One servo clutched all too tightly to his energon, the other rested on Ratchet’s leg under the dubious cover of the table, running up and down a transformation seam on his inner thigh and sending shivers up his spinal strut.  
  
Another swipe of the datapad, another teasing lick of the treat, and another chorus of poorly concealed moans and whispers.  
  
“I thought you said he wasn’t interested in interfacing.” Drift whispered in his audial, optics still locked on the oblivious mech drawing all the attention.  
  
“He’s turned down anyone who ever asked, from what I heard.” Ratchet licked his lips, watching as Rung did the same. His cooling fans spun up with a rattle and a whine, and he jumped in his seat. Drift’s servo on his thigh tightened, pressing him back down. “Don’t think he’s ever accepted _anyone's_ offer, to be honest.”  
  
“Well, if he hasn’t…” Drift leaned over far enough to rest his chin on Ratchet’s shoulder, still staring openly at Rung, and failed to bite back a whimper when the treat was pushed slowly, deliberately, into his mouth, disappearing behind pursed lips to dissolve on his glossa, “Then he is very, very gifted.”  
  
Rung leaned back in his chair, pulling off his glasses and rolling his helm back. One servo rubbed the back of his neck, and his optics offlined, lips parting on a little moan as audible pops could be heard in the suddenly deathly silent room.  
  
Ratchet felt his face flush, and stealing a quick glance around showed that he wasn’t the only one with burning faceplates. Tailgate in the corner was trying to bat away the servo Cyclonus had clapped over his visor. The larger purple mech’s mouth hung open, and he quickly looked away when he caught Ratchet staring. Swerve was behind the bar, and if Ratchet had any processor threads available to boot his vocalizer, he’d point out that the bartender was wasting perfectly good engex all over the bar, Skids’ glass overflowing as he bit his lip and stared, servo still on the tap.  
  
There were similar scenes all over the room, mechs trying to silence rattling cooling fans, pressing chilled glasses to their faceplates to control their flush. A few whispered praises to Primus were thrown into the mix, and if Ratchet was a praying mech, he could agree that this would be a very good thing to thank the god for, indeed.  
  
As it was, he reached down and snatched Drift’s servo as it wandered up his thigh to tap at the edge of his panel.  
  
“Not here.” He managed to choke out, while Rung ran his thumb over his mouth, undoubtedly to clean up the traces of the rust stick, but only managing to smear the glossy mix of powder and oral solvents, making his lips shine. Between the sheen and the stretch of his mouth around a contented smile, it was all too easy to imagine how he would look, mouth spread around not a skinny little snack, but the thick girth of his spike.  
  
He ruthlessly shut down that line of thought, and tilted his helm to whisper directly into Drift’s audial.  
  
“Let’s take it back to our room.” He was halfway out of his seat when Rung stood. He froze, servo on Drift’s shoulder flare.  
  
Rung blinked, looking around the room and taking in the slack jawed expressions for the first time.  
  
“Oh dear… is something the matter?”  
  
A veritable tidal wave of noise as mechs shouted over one another to assure Rung that no, everything was just fine.  
  
“Do I have something on my face? Why are you all staring at me?” Rung chuckled, swiping nervously at his mouth to catch any missed bits of engex or candy. When he was again given a negative in response, he looked down, and saw his glasses sitting next to his data pad. “Ah! I apologize. I know I look odd without them on, but they sometimes pinch.” He made to put them back on, and Whirl swooped in, snatching them up with the waldos in one claw.  
  
“Ratch?”  
  
“Yea, Drift?” They watched as Rung argued patiently with Whirl, one servo outstretched, palm up, waiting for the rotor to return his glasses.  
  
“Please tell me we can ask him back to berth?” He couldn’t hide the whine in his voice as Rung stretched up, plating tightening and pulling taught as he reached for the glasses held just over his helm.  
  
“…Worth a shot. But, not today.” Drift whimpered, mouthing at Ratchet’s shoulder and squeezing his servo. “He’s had enough attention already, I think.” And it was obviously true. The therapist had managed to retrieve his glasses, and his face was nearly as flushed as the rest of the occupants of the bar while he gathered up his datapad.  
  
Whirl apologized, waving his claws around and effectively breaking the tense silence that had fallen over the room. Mechs went back to their own business, although undoubtedly, the conversations now revolved around Rung.  
  
Ratchet wondered how many proposals the therapist would get, and how many he would turn down.  
  
His only thought as he dragged Drift out of the bar by his servo, and they weren’t the only couple leaving in a hurry, was that he hoped theirs wouldn’t be one of them.


End file.
